


Soldier's Grave

by EmilyDragonette



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 06:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyDragonette/pseuds/EmilyDragonette
Summary: Written for my grandfather who fought in Vietnam. God bless him!





	Soldier's Grave

I slowly rocked back and forth against a gray stone, aware that someone was nearby.  
The Lieutenant was a good man, and had become one of my good friends here. Dirt lingered under his fingernails and stained his uniform, reminding me of the task we had just completed, and the mud and blood on my own hands. 

The world seemed to cry for the dead, letting its frantic tears land on the large leaves with sharp notes that lingered in the still, stale air. The hair stood up on the back of my neck as my ears strained, listening for the impending enemy footsteps. My nose filled with a thick stench that coated my tongue and forced me to gag.  
I shuddered, flashing back to the bodies lying in their rows. There was nothing to cover their open eyes, to hide that last moment of fear as their soul was stripped from their bodies and sent flying to Heaven or Hell. When you dug their grave, they watched you shovel away the dirt. When you laid them in the hole, they watched you with a terrified gaze.  
Sometimes it was hard to tell who was the enemy and who was the soldier standing next to you. They were all the same age, and the only defining feature on the filth-riddled corpses was a faded uniform with a United States flag.

My father, who was a preacher back in Texas, would have solemnly proclaimed that the good Lord would save all who nobly fought and died for our country.  
This wasn't noble.  
I squeezed my eyes shut and grasped the cross in my hands tighter. The wooden edges had left an imprint in my palm that never seemed to fade. I took a deep breath and sent up a small prayer, my words barely a whisper as Lieutenant Brown sat next to me against the old stone.  
He did nothing to comfort me, because there was nothing he could do. An eighteen-year-old who spent his senior trip on the way to Vietnam was the last person who should have had to bury twenty-three soldiers that died in an ambush. He shouldn't have had to bury the men he fought with and, as the son of a long line of preachers, should have known about death, and wouldn't be afraid of it.

I was. I was tired of burying my friends. I hated sending them up to meet God when a lot of them were my age. I did not look at Lieutenant Brown. He had the same face I did, and to look in that mirror would do nothing for me. I wasn't even on the front lines and I was terrified of this place.  
I stared off into the distance at the makeshift graves marked by faded gray stones. Those men deserved so much better than what we’d been able to do. Each one of these brave soldiers deserved to be buried in a respectful funeral that honored their deaths, not buried in the middle of some Godforsaken jungle on the other side of the world. 

I wondered, honestly, what life would be like when I returned. My best friend Lewis wouldn't be there anymore, so I would have to find someone else to joke with. I couldn't replace him, not by a million miles, but I could sure as hell run away from the memory of my best friend smiling and cracking jokes before a bullet ripped a hole in his chest.  
There were many things you weren't warned about when you came to these places. Seeing your friends die was on the list, but the way it left you…  
I unfolded the note clutched in my hands along with the cross and smiled at the penmanship. My mother wrote me a note every other week to keep me sane. Every letter was the same: she told me what my father had been up to, how my little sister Lizzy was, and how much they missed me. 

I did not have a girl waiting back home like most of the men who died here. As I dragged their bodies to the graves letters and pictures would fall out of pockets, showing that they had people waiting for them. People who still didn't know their loved ones died. One of them had a ring wrapped in the photo of a young woman with an unsent letter asking her to marry him.  
I never told my mother what happened here. I would write back how much I missed them all and how much I wanted to be back home. That was it. To write any more would be a burden on her and my family, and this was a weight that I, as a soldier, had to bear myself. 

Everyone carried those weights because it reminded them of what was back home, and of what waited for us. The smell of momma’s sugary pie in the spring breeze, the taste of salt in the air when you drove down to the beach, the familiarity of driving through your neighborhood and seeing the people you grew up with, and that irreplaceable feeling of walking into your house and knowing you’re home.  
Then I would wake up and find myself here. 

“I know you’re here Thomas.” Lieutenant Brown said quietly. He glanced in my direction. “We buried you today. You don't have to stay, not when you’ve done your part.”  
I smiled sadly. Who else would help bury the dead?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my grandfather who fought in Vietnam. God bless him!


End file.
